


parapraxis

by hamiltrashed



Series: You & Your Words [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Desire, Freudian Slips, Hand Jobs, Hotels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: Hamilton is toasting to Jefferson's new promotion in front of all of their coworkers -- only what he just said is definitelynotwhat he meant to say.





	parapraxis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skarlatha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/gifts), [Michelle_A_Emerlind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/gifts).



> Hello hello, dear friends and fellow Hamiltrash. A couple of notes!
> 
> i. I have once again returned. My recent graduation from college means I will have much more time to do the things I love, including drinking coffee, reading my stupid amount of unread books, and yes, writing more fic! Hooray! I knocked this out in about an hour last night, and decided that this is going to be a series of vocabulary-centered fics, perhaps one for each letter of the alphabet? So look out for 25 more of these, each more explicit than the last (okay, maybe not that far, but there will be sex and lots of it). Think of it like the SAT, but way more fun. I also have a couple of novel-length stories in the works!
> 
> ii. To the person on Tumblr who anon'd me and asked for me to write some extra scenes from my 'flooded my senses' series from Jefferson's perspective -- if you're reading this, they're coming, I promise! Stay tuned, friend!
> 
> iii. My longstanding beta and dear friend, Michelle_A_Emerlind, has been crazy busy, so her sweetheart Skarlatha beta'd for me this time around. This is dedicated to both of them as the anniversary of us seeing Hamilton together and sharing air with Lin-Manuel Miranda was two days ago and I'm still living for that day.

**parapraxis** **  
** **[par-** **_uh_ ** **-** **prak** **-sis] noun**

**a slip of the tongue often thought to reveal unconscious wishes, desires, or attitudes, also called a Freudian slip**

**#**

Alex really means for the words to come out with grace. He means to say them eloquently, like he bears Thomas no ill will because really, he doesn’t. He almost likes the man by now. He means to give the toast so jauntily that it sounds like a million bucks, but the alcohol he’s already consumed gets right in the way of his tongue, so that instead of saying “I wish you great success,” he looks Thomas Jefferson dead in the eye and, in front of every single one of their coworkers, says, “I wish you great sex.” 

There’s a moment of pure silence in which this pronouncement washes over the crowd, and then someone snickers, and everybody, even Washington, erupts into laughter. Alex stands there for one heartbeat, then another, and finally mutters into the microphone, “-ess. Sex...ess. Success. Okaythanksgoodnight.” He hurries off the stage, dumps the rest of his glass of wine into a fake plant at the edge of the hotel ballroom, and escapes into the hall as the string quartet kicks back in behind him and the chatter starts up again. No need to question what they’re talking about. 

“That’ll go in the Christmas newsletter,” Alex mutters to himself as he makes his way toward the elevator to retreat to the room the company so graciously paid for during this weekend of office related workshops and tonight’s big gala. He cringes at the thought that if Lafayette was on his toes (and undoubtedly he was), his godawful slip of the tongue is probably making the rounds on Snapchat already. And Lord, what a slip that was. His face is flushed, he knows this without seeing it, and he’s hot around the collar of his shirt, too warm from too little food and too much drink. And now he’s blushing like a teenager on prom night because not two minutes ago he looked straight into the face of a man who just accepted a promotion and is therefore now his boss, and told him he hopes he has great sex.  
  
Wonderful. Perfect. Absolutely nothing could possibly be better. 

Alex jabs a finger into the 5th floor button as he steps into the elevator, and the doors are just about to close when a hand slips in between them, preventing them from sliding shut. They open again, and Thomas is standing there, a look on his face that Alex would be hard pressed to describe, talented with words though he is. 

“Oh. It’s you,” Alex says drily, a little drunkenly. “Listen, I haven’t got another toast in me if you want a do-over. Sorry if I embarrassed you.”  
  
“Au contraire,” Thomas says, grinning widely as he steps inside the elevator and lets the doors close behind him. “That might have been the best toast I’ve ever heard. Nobody’s ever wished me great sex before. Can’t say I hated it.”

“Fuck off,” Alex mutters, flushing a further shade of red in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

“What, I said I _didn’t_ hate it,” Thomas laughs. “You should do all your speaking while drunk. It lends you some flair.”  
  
“I’m not sure if you think you’re complimenting me, but you’re not,” Alex says with a frown, rubbing his thumb at a spot between his eyebrows where a slight, painful throbbing has begun. The doors of the elevator open at the fifth floor, and Alex steps out.

Thomas ignores this remark and follows. “Anyway,” he says, “would you call that a Freudian slip, what you said? Is your innermost desire my happiness which can be achieved only through incredible sexual bliss?”  
  
Alex rolls his eyes, but it only makes his head hurt worse. “My innermost desire is actually for you to stop talking about this.”

Alex stops outside the door of his room, and Thomas stops too. Thomas smirks at him, that irritating smug little grin that says he knows something everyone else doesn’t, even if it isn’t true. “Come on, Alexander. Would it kill you to laugh at yourself? You know what they say. Drunk words are sober thoughts.”

Alex keys open the door and he doesn’t explicitly invite Thomas in, but he doesn’t shut the door either. Instead, he holds it open for a second, turns to stare at him. He blinks once, then opens his mouth to speak.

“I’ve thought about you naked. Goodnight.” He doesn’t wait to see Thomas’s reaction. He lets go of the door and it slams shut.

#

When Alex wakes, his head is still pounding. It’s 8am, he has three hours in which to check out before his time at the hotel is no longer on the company’s dime, and he’s wondering how many remixes there are on YouTube already of A. Ham’s lit af new single (or whatever the kids say these days) entitled “I Wish You Great Sex.” Knowing Lafayette and Herc and Laurens, at least seven.

There’s a knock at the door at four minutes past eight. Hamilton considers not moving because housekeeping would announce themselves, which means that it’s Thomas, and Alex thinks there was a lot said last night, a lot and somehow too little, and to answer the door could be dangerous bordering on catastrophic. Still, his conscience nags at him, tells him that even though the fierce fourteen year old from the islands is still somewhere in him telling him he doesn’t owe anybody anything, he at least owes Thomas a little more than he’s given. He gets up, tries to keep his head steady for fear that his sober-yet-muddled brain might slide right out his ears, and pulls open the door.

“Morning,” Thomas says. “I also think about you naked.”  
  
Alex puzzles over this for close to a minute before he realizes he’s standing at the door in his underwear, that Thomas is hardly better dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, and he invites him in.

“Present tense?” Alex finally asks.

“What?”

“You said, ‘I also _think_ about you naked.’ As in presently. Last night I said, ‘I’ve _thought_ about you naked.’ As in the past.”

“Does it matter?” Thomas asks, waving a hand, already exasperated.

“Context is everything,” Alex says, retreating toward the bed, sitting down on the end of it, observing Thomas from a few feet away.

“Fine. Yes. Present tense. I think about you naked. Presently. You?”

Alex shrugs. “Never quite stop.”

Thomas sighs. “Great. Okay. Yeah. So…?”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Do you need flash cards?” Thomas asks with an eyeroll. “For me to spell it out for you? You think about me naked and expressed a desire for me to have great sex --”  
  
“That was a slip of the tongue --”  
  
“Spelling it out it is, then: if you’re going to have slips of the tongue, I’d prefer you do it on my dick.”

“...oh.” Alex figured they’d arrive here when he opened the door for Thomas, and yet somehow, he didn’t. Somehow he imagined they’d express a strange attraction to one another and then, as if they weren’t grown ass men who worked together in an always all-too-warm office where Thomas was always sweaty and loosening his tie and Alex was always licking his lips at the sight of the barest inch of his throat, they’d go their separate ways and simply not act upon it. “...Oh,” he repeats now, looking up at Thomas and seeing him as if for the first time, noting much more clearly the shape of him, all long legs and dark brown skin and muscle, admiring much more closely the plumpness of his lips, the color of his eyes, the breadth of his hips that Alex is suddenly considering straddling.

It doesn’t really get that far. It gets as far as Thomas coming in for a kiss, warm and electric, a kiss that tastes like a breakfast of fresh fruit and coffee and maybe like desire; at least, with Thomas’s tongue in his mouth, that’s the impression Alex gets. And then it gets as far as Thomas’s hand inside Alex’s boxers, deliciously slow and lazy and just right for a Saturday morning, but so achingly not enough that Alex wants to whine for more but all he can get out are these weak, stuttery moans that even a kid getting his first handjob under the bleachers would be embarrassed of.

But it doesn’t really matter, because Alex finds enough sense to return the favor until they’re warm and alive and tangled together in the bed with one hand each down the other’s shorts like it’s a lonely winter night back at Columbia and god, Hamilton remembers those well, remembers boys like Aaron Burr who always denied him anything but a hand and a threat to keep their secrets. This will be different, he thinks, because neither of them have much to hide. Neither are trying very hard either when Thomas comes, shouting Alex’s name.

Alex comes with a whimper but it feels like a bang. And just like Thomas’s toast last night, there’s laughter, but it’s that post-orgasmic laughter, that dizzy laughter that bubbles up before you can stop it.

“So,” Alex says when he finally catches his breath, “wasn’t quite sex, but it was great, no?”

Thomas, too busy kissing Alex’s neck, rises to the bait. “Don’t know,” he says. “Felt like a test run. We really oughta give it another shot.” His mouth finds Alex’s ear. “And you really oughta share more of those innermost desires.”


End file.
